Max Payne can't even find peace in a graveyard. A quiet moment of remembrance, dour and dusted in snow, is soon buried beneath the sound of gunfire. This man exists to kill, and the tombstone that names his murdered wife and daughter is there to provide cover.

The transition from emotionally tinged burial ground to functional battleground is at once touching and tasteless, presented in that kind of awkward, bittersweet combination that video games have gotten down to an art form. Can you really argue with the outcome? The cemetery perfectly recalls the birth of Max, the cynical, disheveled vigilante - and what better playground for Max, the cover-based shooter, than a plot of land filled with upright granite slabs? Rockstar can't outrun the nature of the game, no more than its wrecked anti-hero can escape his nature as problem solver via midair shooting.